


Wayward Son

by muses_circle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mentions of Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 23:12:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12692154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muses_circle/pseuds/muses_circle
Summary: Let me out. Give me life. Let me out! Announce yourself to the world, Samuel Winchester! Show them what you really are! ...what if you go darkside?





	1. Before the Storm

 

“Sam, I think I found it,” Bobby announced and pushed the tattered book across the table.

Sam, who had been knee-deep in works on archaic incantations and spells, grabbed it and read the page Bobby bookmarked. The ghost of a smile flitted across his lips as a twinge of hope sparked inside his soul.

One hundred days since he watched Hellhounds destroy Dean’s body, Sam felt like the end was near. Everyone else said it couldn’t be done, but the proof that it _could_ sat before him. He whispered a prayer of thanks to the person who had translated this ancient text into Latin for future generations to use. “Who’d you have to kill to get a hold of this text?” he asked with a glance at Bobby.

The hunter grunted and shrugged his shoulders. “Called in a few favors.”

“Good thing,” Sam replied, “or else we never would’ve come across the mention of this.” He indicated to the book.

A dark look passed across Bobby’s eyes. “Sam, you sure this is gonna work? Just because you came across a legend about Joan of Arc raising a kid from the dead doesn’t mean _this_ ritual is the one she used. Hell, it’s a legend, odds are it ain’t true.”

“It has to be,” Sam insisted with a stony face. “This ritual matches that of the description of that resurrection. It’s too much of a coincidence. Besides, I’m at the end of my rope, Bobby. There’s nothing else.” Whatever relief he might have felt melted into the familiar mind-numbing despair. He had searched everywhere for an answer – demons, the devil’s gate, numerous texts – and the resurrection ritual he held in his hands was the only viable option. It was this, or nothing, and Sam would be damned before he gave up on saving Dean.

 _And if you can’t?_ a voice inside taunted him. _What’cha gonna do then, Sammy? Let the world burn? Destroy yourself hunting down Lilith and damn anyone who gets in your way?_

“I get you’re mourning,” Bobby’s voice interrupted the dark thoughts racing through Sam’s mind, “but your head ain’t in the game here.”

“Is too,” he protested, sounding a little like a petulant child.

“Oh yeah? The black cloud over your head with a flashing neon sign saying ‘my brother’s dead and it’s all my fault’ isn’t going to get in your way?”

Red-hot anger bubbled inside from seeing Bobby’s concern. “It _is_ my fault!” he cried and kicked out of his seat. “Why didn’t I find this sooner? My searching, if I had tried harder . . . Dean wouldn’t have died!” The self-loathing twisted in his insides. “I’m not going to let my brother rot in hell. He’s all I got left, and if I can’t save him –“

“Dean was like a son to me,” Bobby interrupted Sam. “You are, too, but I am not about to watch you burn just like your brother!”

 _Aren’t we burning anyway?_ Sam thought and turned to the window. He might be alive, but his personal hell was very present and horrific. The last Winchester. Everyone else was gone. He failed to fulfill his promise made to Dean: _We’ll find a way to save you._ The rest of his life was a shell – most of his soul already felt dead. He didn’t deserve to live while his brother remained in torment. No matter what he did, this betrayal lingered in his mind, proof that his life was a giant lie.

“Look,” Sam said and turned to face Bobby, “this ritual, it’s dangerous. I get that. Tapping into my ‘essence’ is going to require all my concentration.”

“You’re going to use whatever powered your visions as the source?” Bobby asked.  “Do I need to remind you that could kill you?”

“Trust me, Bobby, I’ve thought about it.” _But it’s worth it, so I don’t care. If going darkside means saving my brother, then I’ll take that chance._

“What about the other biggie, the blood of the living?”

Sam grit his teeth. “I’m going to use my blood, Bobby.”

For a moment, the other man glared at him, and Sam thought another lecture would follow. However, Bobby sighed. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you wanted to die.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam said, shaking off his friend’s look of compassion. “I’m going to see this through. Since the ritual has to be performed by Dean’s grave, there’s no time to waste. I have work to do.” He turned on his heel and grabbed the book on his way into the other room.

“ _We_ ,” Bobby corrected him. “No way you’re doing this alone. Besides, someone should be around for . . . just in case you need some help.”

Sam stopped and turned. The look on Bobby’s face – the determined set of his jaw, the _ditch me and you’re toast_ glare – meant business. There would be no talking his friend out of it. Sam accepted the other man’s help and nodded. “You have the other supplies we need?”


	2. The Eye of the Storm

The humidity hung about them like a shroud. Fitting, Sam supposed as he placed candles around the grace he and Bobby had dug up. For the most part, they had fumbled through the dark – using meager flashlights to dig up Dean’s grave. With no moon and starlight, and the flicker of the candles, the night felt oppressive. Despite that, Sam could smell the damp earth, recall his brother’s death screams, and hear the ghostly echo of the pine box casket making contact with the ground six feet down.

Once the candles were lighted and circling Dean’s grave, Sam sat at the foot of the hole and poured the mixture of hers in a small bowl in front of him. He felt Bobby’s eyes on him and sighed. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he said and shot what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“This is still a bad idea,” Bobby said from his sitting place beside Sam.

“Yeah, you said that already.” Sam ignored the unspoken question, _What if you go darkside, Sam?_ – and pulled out a matchstick. With a final glance at Bobby, he lit it and stared at the flame, begging for this to work and damn the consequences. Then, with one last breath, he threw it into the bowl of herbs.

Smoke curled around his body, intoxicating him with its fragrance. Picking up the book, with one arm stretched out over the hole, he began the incantation – calling forth the spirit of resurrection, entreating audience. The words themselves stirred up power, and something inside him shifted, as if one side of his soul changed position to allow the other side to come forth – the part that lay hidden beneath the goodness, unable to escape from its prison of light. As his lips recited the ritual, the other side stretch and groaned, reveling in its first gasp of the night. It was free.

Blackness pervaded Sam’s body, infusing his physical form with this other – this darkness and evil – and it clawed its way around inside. He began to shake with the pain of his soul squeezing beneath the torment but continued chanting the words. The darkness inside fed off his guilt and despair, becoming stronger, seeking out his latent powers only recently brought to life with the gift of Ruby’s blood. Once they merged, the darkness howled in victory. He winced but continued reading, vaguely aware of Bobby reaching over and tossing the remaining ingredients into the bowl.

_Let me out. Give me life. Let me out! Announce yourself to the world, Samuel Winchester! Show them what you really are!_ That voice – filled with hatred and misery, sounding so much like a twisted version of himself – taunted Sam, dared him to release the pressure that now threatened to destroy him. And he wanted to release it. Why not give it a try?

_I can bring Dean back. I’m so strong. Just let me out and give me what I want_. The sour sting of sulfur assaulted him. Sam tried to pull away but found he was immobile. Whatever this thing was, it could control his body at will. Almost like a possession.

Words floated on the wind, long strings of words together incoherently. It took a moment for him to recognize the sound of his own voice. Why was he screaming? What kept his vocal chords going? How did it suddenly seem that he was no longer a part of his mind, but separated from himself?

_Let me out. Prove to yourself that you’re not a flunkie. Save your brother. Save your brother and unleash your true nature. You know you want to._

Sam felt the coldness of a blade. Bobby would fulfill his part of the ritual. Slice him open, let the blood flow. He understood now. Let it out. The power was in his blood. There was no escaping it.

Why not let it out?

Vaguely he became aware that his lips had stopped moving. The sharp sting of the blade glided across his palm. It felt so good, and he couldn’t help himself . . . Sam laughed, the vicious, maniacal sound mingling with the blood that fell. _This blood of life is the offering_ , he thought, _now raise this wayward son and give him full life!_

Suddenly, hot, blinding light flashed across his eyes. Where it came from, he did not know. It lashed out at the evil surging through him, setting his soul on fire as it put to right the wrongness that, only moments ago, held him prisoner. The center of his being felt different – cleansed, innocent and pure – almost as if the evil had little sway with who he really _was_.  The force slammed him to the ground. Sam cried out, his mind reconnecting with his body, his soul shining as brightly as any star in the sky.

Just before he fell into blissful unconsciousness, Sam knew without a doubt that Dean was alive.


	3. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promised. And I had to keep that promise.

Something woke him from a sound sleep, the best sleep he’d had in months. Sam’s eyes snapped open, and he started up in bed, groaning when his head began to throb. In fact, his entire body ached from head to toe. Wincing, Sam eased himself into a seated position on the bed, rubbed his eyes, and looked around.

A generic hotel room with tacky 1970’s era wallpaper, one window and two doors. One of them looked like a connecting door to another room, and it was open. Sam frowned. The last thing he remembered was passing out after living through the most intense moments of his life – none of which made sense. How had he gotten here, wherever _here_ was?

Sam threw the covers off his legs and got out of bed, cursing when his legs wobbled and threatened to pitch him headlong into the wall. The sounds of voices and footsteps sounded from the open door, but he was too focused on maintaining some balance to pay much attention.

“Hey, Sammy.”

Understanding shot up his spine at the sound of that voice. The one voice he had wanted to hear for nearly four months. Sam forced his head up and looked towards the door. What he saw almost knocked him off his feet.

Dean was there, standing next to Bobby, whole . . . and _alive_.

Sam’s eyes flickered over to Bobby, whose serious gaze hinted at the gladness he felt but would never acknowledge. The hunter nodded at Sam but said nothing.

It was all Sam could do to remain standing. “Dean?” he asked in an uncertain voice. Why wouldn’t his damn legs function?

Dean rolled his eyes in mock disbelief and smiled. “Been gone for four months, and that’s the kind of greeting I get?” He crossed the room.

Somehow he found his footing and walked towards his brother. A million thoughts ran through his head – _Was it really him? Could it be a shapeshifter? Am I still dreaming?_ But a feeling inside – the voice he had come to trust – told him with complete conviction that the man standing there was his brother. Dean was alive. Sam had done it.

Sam wrapped his arms around his brother and hugged him. Tears pricked his eyelids, matching the elation, the peace he felt inside. _Things would get back to normal_ , he thought. _I did it: I got him back. He and I will hunt together once more, track down Lilith and make her pay . . ._

He let Dean go abruptly and looked at him. “How long have you . . .?” Sam asked.

“You been out for almost a day,” Bobby called from his position at the door. “By the time I brought you here . . .” His voice trailed off and he indicated towards Dean. “I met him walking down the road.”

 “Did you really do it?” Dean asked and shot Sam a pointed look. “Brought me back? Let me out of hell?”

Frowning, Sam nodded. “I had no other choice, Dean. I had to do it.”

“Then I don’t need to tell you what a dumb idea that was.”

Sam took a couple steps back and watched the anger mask the concern on his brother’s face. “Look, the way I figure, I failed you when I watched you die. This was my way of redeeming both of us. I promised, Dean. And I had to keep that promise.” His words spilled out in a rush, so that he felt breathless once he finished.

For a long moment, neither of the two men spoke. Finally, Dean glanced back to Bobby.

“So I’m guessing he didn’t turn darkside.”

Perplexed and secretly relieved over this small victory, Sam rolled his eyes. “No, I didn’t. And I won’t.” Part of him wanted to confess that his last memory before passing out was that he felt pure goodness radiating from him, not evil. But that confession would come eventually.

For the moment, all that mattered was Dean lived. He and his brother had been united, and nothing would stop them.

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically my view of how the end of season 3 should have played out. Perhaps it would have happened this way, had the writer's strike in 2008 not happened. Talk about bad timing...


End file.
